


What lies on the side

by orphan_account



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Awkward Flirting, Body Dysphoria, Cowboy AU, Enchanted AU, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Morning After, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pet Shop AU, Pining, Pokemon AU, Pre-Relationship, Slow Dancing, Temporary Character Death, Warrior Cats AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-07-10 21:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19912261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The fics prompted to me that are too short to put up here on there own!Includes patbrijo, patjo, sirens and assassins, cowboys and criminals, and more!





	1. Pokemon

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I've had a bit of writer's block, which makes sense considering the monster that was my latest longer fic, so I've mostly just been writing whatever gets prompted to me on my Tumblr, which I'll link in the endnotes if you're interested in checking it out and prompting something that'll end up here!
> 
> Like I said in the summary, the things put here are here because A: they're too short to be on their own, B: I want to do more with them in the future and don't know what, C: they're not exactly good enough to be on their own because of my standards, and D: they were just short things for my friends based off goofs. 
> 
> Anyway, this first chapter is a prequel of sorts to the Pokemon fic I wrote a few months back. Dunno when this'll be updated, probably when the tag slows down and I feel contractually obligated to put something up.

Pat isn’t gay. Because not only is that insane to think about, he is also very into girls. Really. He’s just as in love with Elesa as any other straight guy in the region.

Thomas’ voice crackles from his end of the Xtransceiver as he falls out of his chair laughing. Pat scowls, because Thomas is a bastard and he regrets going to anyone else for advice.

“I’m hanging up,” he says, menacingly moving his thumb towards the disconnect button.

Thomas wails and pulls himself back into frame, face red and smile wide.

“Sorry,” he wheezes, absolutely not sorry. He wipes an eye dramatically. “It’s just. Pat, dude, you’re such a dumbass.”

“I am not!” Pat protests. He winces as the sleeping man inside the tent shifts, and he walks away a couple more steps. Doesn’t want to disturb him, absolutely doesn’t want him to hear this conversation. “I just know what I like, that’s all.”

“Lemme give it to you straight, man. You can like both girls and guys, and everything in between and beyond. It’s absolutely possible.”

It is, technically. Thomas is bisexual, Brian is whatever ‘panromantic’ means, Phillip is gay specifically for Terry. Pat’s pretty sure that his old roommate was a lesbian. And it’s not like he’s against any of them or their sexuality or anything, because that’s the exact opposite of the truth. It just. Doesn’t apply to him.

Pat sighs and runs a hand through his hair, glancing back at the tent. He can see Terry inside getting up and waving his little vines around in a search for either Pat or Phillip. Or both.

“How do I even know if this is romantic?” he asks. “For all I know, this could be one of those friend crushes. Or loneliness.”

“Friend crushes don’t make your penis jump,” Thomas sagely says.

Pat ends the call. Five seconds later, he sighs and calls Thomas back.

“I hate you,” Pat says, resigned to his fate.

“Sorry about the penis,” Thomas apologizes, absolutely not apologizing. He’s a bastard. “But, seriously, Pat, I think you’re going through your bisexual awakening. It’s fine, I’m still the same Thomas you knew back in the day.”

“You-”

Pat’s cut off by something pulling on the hem of his shirt, and he looks down and sighs at Terry, who extends two vines up and hops in place. Pat sighs again and heaves Terry up, giving him the harshest glare he can manage. Terry maybe-smiles (hard to tell with only eyes) and nuzzles his “face” into Pat’s shoulder.

Thomas coos, “Who’s that? Is that Phillip’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, because this weed is seventy-something pounds and Pat hasn’t worked out since leaving the city a month ago. “Dunno why he’s out here and not with Brian.”

“Because he loves you,” Thomas teases.

“He’s probably trying to get me to go back in,” Pat says, because that’s almost definitely the reason. Terry doesn’t do anything without a purpose, especially towards him. “Last night, he tied me and Brian together. He’s a brat.”

Terry snakes a vine around Pat’s neck and squeezes just a bit too hard to be friendly.

“Well, he’s a cute one.”

Pat rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, Thomas. Just promise me you won’t tell Legs about this. Arceus knows I don’t need her calling me about this.”

Thomas just winks, and Pat decides he is the worst person he has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Five minutes later as Pat slips back into the tent, Terry hops down out of his arms and onto the ground, toddling back over to the lump that is Brian and flopping down next to him. Brian immediately turns onto his side and pulls Terry to his chest and falls back asleep, hair messily strewn across his peaceful, calm face, and Pat ignores the pang of want hitting his chest.


	2. Cowboys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brian is a fool and Pat is a cowboy who is also a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this for a friend on Tumblr based off their au. Yee haw!

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re scared of horses?”

“Dunno,” Brian shrugs, firmly staring down at the mug of hot chocolate in his hands. He’s bundled up in one of Pat’s more-worn blankets, his hair still dripping wet from his spill, nose red from the cold and eyes wet with tears he’s desperately trying to hold in. Because Pat looks…not angry, he can’t be angry about this (right?). But he looks disappointed, for lack of a better term. 

Pat sighs. He’s changed out of his flannel, into a well-loved MCR t-shirt and a pair of blue flannel pajama pants. His glasses are off, and his eyes are warm. He’s sitting across from Brian in the armchair, and Brian would give anything to have him on the couch next to him so he could be an idiot again and burrow into Pat’s side and never leave, let the warmth surround him and never let him go.

“Brian,” Pat sighs, almost sounding like he’s going to go on another rant about how Brian just should’ve told him from the beginning. 

But Brian breaks into a cough and takes a sip of his cocoa and Pat just leans forward onto his elbows, clasps his hands together like Brian’s therapist used to back when he was in the city. When the nearest therapist wasn’t over a hundred miles away, and Simone doesn’t count no matter how many times she tries to get Brian to open up beyond _“moved here to get away from an ex, is pining after the lone cowboy up on the Paul E. Gone Memorial Ranch and State Park, is fucking terrified of storms and horses and jumps every time someone slams a door”_.

“I don’t blame you,” Pat says, instead. Brian blinks, and Pat looks down at his hands. “Paul, when he was still around, used to make me clean out the barn every March to get ready for planting season. You’ve seen that place, there’s more spiders there than there are people in this fuckin’ state. And you know how I get around those little bastards. But did I tell him that? Fuck no. He was…he was cool. You never met him, but he was something else. ‘Course I wasn’t gonna tell him that his only ranchhand was too scared to dig around in the hay looking for spare…you know. Stuff.”

Brian sniffles, coughs wetly. “Yeah, I- _fuck_ , I get you. That place is a death trap.”

Pat snorts. “Why do you think I moved production away from livestock?”

“Government regulations?” Brian chances. 

“Government can kiss my ass,” Pat spits, almost literally spitting. Brian lets loose a light smile, and he can see a smile forming in Pat’s eyes (Pat doesn’t like to smile outwardly, Simone says it’s because his dad used to say smiling was for women and he had too hard of a belt for Pat to try otherwise. Pat says it’s because he doesn’t want Brian seeing his stupid crooked teeth). “Naw, I’d tear that thing down if I had the money. But state wants it up for ‘historical value’, as if Paul’d ever let the state have any bit of that thing. He wanted to burn it down.”

“We should go burn it down. Right now.”

“And let the spiders die? Fuck no, need to preserve the ecosystem. Sister would kill me if I let that happen.” Pat blinks, shakes his head. “ _Anyway_ , what I was getting at is that, you know, I kind of get why you didn’t tell me.”

Brian raises an eyebrow, still smiling. “You think I think you’re cool?”

“No, I think you think you need to prove yourself to me even though you literally don’t,” Pat replies. His hands are almost shaking. Brian wants to drop his cocoa to the floor and take Pat’s hands in his own, hold them, but Pat would probably suplex him for spilling something on the rug. Again. “I. Brian, I care about you. A lot. Even though you complain about the heat and scream and jump into the river when you see a horse even after five fucking months of working here.“

Brian swallows the lump in his throat and looks back down at his mug. The marshmallows are still bobbing along happily. “I care about you, too, Pat. You’re just. I didn’t want to seem like a burden, ‘s’all.”

“You aren’t a burden, God, you’re the fucking opposite. You’re, like. Fuck, you make this whole thing easier some days. Sorry about, uh, seeming forward about that. ‘Cause of your whole, uh, thing.”

“I don’t have a thing, Patrick,” Brian coolly says. 

“‘Course you don’t, Brian. Just.” Pat unclasps his hands and claps a hand on Brian’s knee, and then he forgets to pull it away. Brian freezes, Pat just rubs his thumb in tiny circles. He’s warm, so warm. “I care about you. A lot. Fuck, I already said that. I-”

Brian sets his cocoa down on the armrest and takes up Pat’s hand in his own two like he promised himself he wasn’t going to, looks up at his beautiful face and smiles, just a bit tightly because _goddamn_ he wishes he had a goddamn therapist out here. Pat looks like, funnily enough, a spooked horse, eyes wide and mouth still open. Shocked, maybe. His eyes scream a smile Brian would kill to see. 

“Pat G!ll, you’re probably the most important man in my life,” Brian says, sounding not unlike Kev did that night all those months ago. But this is the opposite, he thinks, he hopes. “And I’d try and kiss you right now if I wasn’t sure I was coming down with a cold.”

“What if we just. Hugged. But with feeling?” Pat offers, looking unsure despite shifting over onto the couch next to him.

Brian answers by pulling Pat into a tight hug, letting his head drop onto Pat’s shoulder with a light cough, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders and ignoring Pat’s brief protest of _“Brian, you’re gonna get sicker, now!”_. And Pat’s so warm, so damn warm, and Brian presses a brief, light kiss to Pat’s exposed collarbone, right on top of a scar that he’s going to ask about in a less emotionally-tender moment. 

It starts to rain outside, the first rain since Brian moved here, and the fire in the fireplace is probably going to go out sometime soon based on their luck, but neither of them are going to move, and Brian’s just fine with that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s almost back asleep when his pillow moves, and Pat maybe screams a little and rolls against the wall, smacking his head against the window frame with a curse. 
> 
> “The fuck?” asks Brian’s roommate, gruff and groggy and rough, and. And shit. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit more risque than the previous two, so like. rating change :D
> 
> anyway this was also a gift to a tumblr mutual, and thus was written in one hour and not edited and shall never be edited

The previous night’s alcohol hits him like a train, all hard and loud and fucking disgusting, like iron liquified. All he had was…mimosa? Something in the back of his throat just screams _whiskey_. Ah. Whiskey mimosa, of course, he’s such a responsible drinker. 

Pat screws his eyes shut against the invading morning light, turns onto his other side so that he’s facing away from the window. Pulls the pillow next to him closer to his face, buries his face in it, and it’s warm and soft and everything he wants right now other than the special hangover-curing bacon-coffee-eggs soup thing he made back in college when he got like this more often, and boy he wants it. Needs it. As soon as he’s confident he won’t, like, vomit if he moves more than one inch. 

He’s almost back asleep when his pillow moves, and Pat maybe screams a little and rolls against the wall, smacking his head against the window frame with a curse. 

“The fuck?” asks Brian’s roommate, gruff and groggy and rough, and. And shit. Shit.

“Urgh,” Pat says in lieu of a proper response. He forces himself into some sort of a sitting position, still with his eyes closed because he still hasn’t bought darker curtains and the window is, like, right in his face. Something ( _notjonahnotjonahnotjonah_ ) brushes against his thigh. Bare thigh. Bare self oh God. 

“Oh no,” Jonah says, probably coming to the same realization as Pat because he makes a weird squeaking-croaking noise and then there’s the sound of movement on the bed, of something that isn’t Charles (the telltale grumpy grunt isn’t there) hitting the floor. Rustling from nearby, towards the streaming set-up. “Oh. Oh my God.”

“Do you-” Pat gags and flops back down onto the bed, tugs the sheets further up his bare chest, cracks his eyes open enough to make sure that this is Jonah in the room and not, like, Charles’ humansona or something equally ridiculous as a naked man in the room. It is. Nice ass, nice face, nice dick. God, he’s still drunk. Has to be. Fuck. He coughs. “Do you remember…what happened?”

“Do you?” Jonah asks, not answering. He pulls up his boxers and scrambles for his jeans, which are flung over Pat’s messenger bag on the floor by the door. “God, Patrick, I’m sorry. Sorry.”

“Me too, fuck,” Pat groans. He drags a hand down his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Were we even together last night?”

“I…I think? Maybe? I don’t really remember much after, uh, the show? You were at the show?”

Brian’s show, with Jonah and someone else. Pat doesn’t know; Simone dragged him out claiming that he needed to not be a vampire for once. And it was fine, not quite Pat’s tastes (except Jo- _fucknonofuck_ ). And then he got drunk and Brian brought his band down to hang with everyone else and Jonah slid into the booth next to Pat and-

Oh.

“Oh,” Pat softly says. He groans again into his pillow, the real one this time, not a ridiculously-attractive man. “ _God_.”

“Yeah, I’m not. Not happy about this either, Patrick.”

“Fuckin’- Fuck, Jonah, I can’t believe you done this.”

Jonah shoots him a bemused look. “Are you quoting vines at me?”

Pat shrugs the shoulder not currently being pressed into the mattress. “Too hungover to think smartly, Scott.”

“Well, _Gill_ , has that ever been a problem before?”

Pat winces. “Geez, dude, at least wait until I’m dressed ‘til you rip me apart.” He pauses, smirks. “Again.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Jonah groans. He hops a bit as he pulls up his jeans, fumbles with the button. “You’re incorrigible. Awful.”

“Pot, kettle, Jonah. You’re the one that fucked me.”

Jonah’s mouth flaps a bit. “Well. Well, uh, yeah. Duh. You might be a dumbass, but you’re good. In bed, yeah, fuck.”

Pat blinks. “What does that even mean?”

“It means that if you tell Brian about this, I will probably die, and he’d be devastated, and neither of us want that, do we?”

“What, you embarrassed?” Pat props himself up on one elbow, ignores the pounding behind his eyes. “You think they’ll laugh at you for getting fucked by Pat Gill?”

Jonah lets out a laugh, bright and loud and that bastard knows it, as he pulls his shirt over his head. “Yeah, like _you’re_ a top, Patrick. Look at you. You’re in shambles, dude.”

Pat sneers and flips some hair out of his face. “Yeah fucking right, Jonah. I’m the picture of masculinity.”

“My ex was a bodybuilder, still got pounded into the bed every night. There’s no way your twink ass-”

“‘Twink’?” Pat asks. He fully sits up and lets the blankets fall off his chest, and, now that he can see it, it’s fucking littered with bruises and bite marks and- he’s never going to admit this to anyone. Ever. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Jonah shrugs. He grabs his glasses off a shelf, right next to Pat’s, Pat notices, and slides them on, blinks and flinches in the light like he’s just now noticing it. “Fuck, you need darker curtains.”

“Tell me about it,” Pat grumbles. 

It doesn’t take Jonah much longer to leave, just a few more remarks about he wishes he could remember Pat’s face as he had the life dicked out of him, how if he even thinks about telling Brian he’ll go around telling everyone everything about the sex that neither of them remember. 

And then Pat just stares up at his ceiling and fights the urge to throw up for more than one reason.

—

Pat and Jonah argued from the moment they met. Brian invited Pat out for drinks, brought his roommates along, and Laura was nice enough. Didn’t immediately call Pat out for not knowing all the words to _Camp Rock_ , whatever the hell that is. And then they exchanged numbers and sent menacing texts to each other and Jonah sent Pat tips for guitar because Pat told him he was trying to learn again and Pat sent Jonah wise New York Wisdoms because Jonah complained about the assholes on the subway. 

And then Pat realized he put a heart next to Jonah’s name in his contacts and fucking. Fucking _smiled_ when Jonah told him he was improving based purely off the occasional two-minute clip of Pat fumbling his way through whatever songs the shitty book from the music store told him to work on for the week. Asked Brian if Jonah was going to be going out with them after the stream and Brian had lit up like a fucking Christmas tree and had said that now Jonah definitely is. 

See, Pat’s known he likes guys since his freshman year of college when he met the TA for his bio lab and went weak at the knees. And _maybe_ he has a type in tall guys that would probably break him if they weren’t soft and cuddly and absolutely handsome and beautiful and scruffy and cute. With soft, nice voices and strong arms and words that could tear him to bits and he’d fucking let them.

But Jonah? Off limits. Because not only would that be fucking weird, not only would it make Brian even more incorrigible at work, it would make Jonah _laugh_ , and not with him. Pat knows how the game goes by now: fall in love, pine, ask them out, get laughed away because his way of flirting is gentle arguing and bickering because he doesn’t know how to socialize like an actual human being and go and hide in his bed until the sun comes up and he has to go do adult things. 

He’s on step two. Maybe beyond now that they’ve, you know, _fucked dear god they’ve fucked_. Can’t go further. 

—

They’re setting up for the stream when Brian leans in close and asks, “You asked him yet?”

And Pat jumps so hard he slams his shoulder into the bottom of Brian’s jaw, breaking them both apart and sending Pat into a near-panic attack as he quickly apologizes, asks if he broke anything, tries not to let Brian see the almost-faded bruises peeking out from the collar of his shirt (he should’ve worn a collared shirt, fuck!). 

Brian shoots him a smile and a thumbs-up. “I’m fine, Pat. You good?”

“I’m.” Pat swallows, goes back to the laptop. They can afford to be another fifteen minutes late, not like the audience expects better of them. “I’m fine. Great. You?”

“So you didn’t ask him out,” Brian says, and Pat sinks back into the couch with a light moan of hatred and dismay towards his current situation. His whole life, actually. Brian puts a hand on Pat’s shoulder, not unkindly. “You should. Like, right now.”

“We have to stream,” Pat weakly says, because he knows arguing with Brian about these sorts of things is impossible. Brian’s fucking psychic, or something. It’s ridiculous. 

“Then after the stream,” Brian firmly says. He pats Pat’s shoulder and goes back to fiddling with the mics unnecessarily. “He’s real into you, Pat. I’m telling you.”

Pat sighs and hangs his head, just a little. “Yeah, sure. Can we just. Not?”

“Patrick…”

Pat winces. “Brian, please. If we did anything, it was, like, hate sex. That’s it.”

“He was smiling all day during rehearsals, Patrick, don’t you dare tell me that.”

Pat perks up despite himself; if he had a tail, it would be wagging embarrassingly. “Really? I mean.” He clears his throat, cheeks going a bit red. “Sure. Whatever.”

Brian snorts and rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Pat Gill. Just know that he’s definitely interested.”

Pat sighs and finishes setting up. “Going live in five.”

—

They go out for dinner after the stream, as usual. The walk there, Brian’s on his phone. Laura, he said. Something about Zuko maybe being sick. 

Just as they walk into the bar and Pat’s about to recommend the place he takes Charlie to because they don’t charge as much as half the other places in the city, Pat catches a glimpse of _him_ and almost bolts. Brian grabs his arm firmly and drags him in with a smile, settling them both down at the table with Jonah, who already looks miserable. Great. Wonderful.

“Gill,” Jonah grunts, raising his shot glass (is that milk in it? the fuck?) to his mouth.

“Scott,” Pat says, weaker than he wanted. Ah, well. Shit. 

Brian grins and pushes back from the table, clapping them both on the shoulders. “I’m going to the bathroom. Mind the latex.”

And then he’s gone in a blur of denim and smugness, and Pat’s sinking down into his chair like it’s going to swallow him. Jonah, at least, looks just about the same way.

“I didn’t tell him,” Pat says, eventually.

“Neither did I,” says Jonah, eventually.

“He’s just-”

“Smart,” Jonah supplies, sighing fondly into his glass. He takes a sip, grimaces, puts it back down. “Look, Pat-”

“I’m allergic to latex,” Pat says instead of anything useful to this situation. 

Jonah blinks. “I know.”

“And milk,” he adds, nodding down at the shot glass. Jonah slides it away towards the other end of the table, if circles can have ends. “And, uh. Strawberries.”

“Why are you listing off your allergies?”

“Because I. I’m nervous.”

“The fuck? Why are _you_ nervous?” Jonah asks, laughing a little, one eye almost twitching. “Dude, I’m the one about to-”

“I can’t have kiwi, either,” Pat interrupts, wishing he wasn’t fucking here.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Patrick, shut up before I lactose your ass,” Jonah groans, but he’s smiling, and Pat hasn’t seen him smile in…well, he always smiles. Pat knows that. He fucking loves his smile, it’s literally perfect. Even when they’re bickering.

Pat, of course, shuts up.

Jonah sighs and ducks his head a little, threads his fingers through the small amount of hair on the back of his head. “Look, Pat, I know I’m. Not good at this, God knows how many times Brian’s had to help me through this. I just…you make me weird. You make me an asshole.”

“You are an asshole,” Pat says.

Jonah laughs a little, shaking his head. “That’s just it, Pat, I’m _not_. But when I’m with you, I get. Weird. Like I said, but like…good weird? Like maybe I didn’t want to leave the other morning?”

Pat’s mouth goes dry. “You called me a twink.”

“You are a twink.”

“I am not a twink.”

“Himbo with a nice jock energy.”

“You calling me nice, Jonah?”

Jonah’s smile goes a bit tight. “You are nice. You know that, right? It’s, like, not fair. At all. Nice face, nice ass, nice dick.”

“You-”

“Maybe Brian said that if I don’t tell you all this tonight, he’s going to lock us in his car until we confess to each other or kill each other.”

“We already fucked, no need to do that,” Pat weakly says. He laughs a little, tight, maybe a bit panicked. “God, Jonah, I’m no good at this. You just. Keep talking, you.”

Then Jonah reaches under the table with his free hand and grabs one of Pat’s out of his lap, squeezes it gently. And Pat sort of gets it. 

“You’ve had a heart in your name since December,” Pat says, looking down at where his phone sits on the table. It lights up with a text from Brian, a simple eyeballs emoji. “If you get what I mean.”

“Oh my God, Patrick, that’s gay,” Jonah says. “You’ve only had one since March.”


	4. Teachers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a prompt ("brijo + teacher au & mistaken for couple") fill (which i love doing because it lets me write and it lets me not like. think about what to write. so yeet)
> 
> these dumbasses are not cool 
> 
> mention of vaping. nothing shown and i know this isn't a normal trigger thing, but i know people who need the warning, so here!

“Can you believe they think me and Pat are dating?”

“Who?” Jonah asks, playing innocent, pretending that Brian doesn’t bring this up every lunch break. 

Brian rolls his eyes and steals a forkful of Jonah’s ramen in retribution. “You know, Tenth Grade, long hair, looks like a rat cosplaying as an emo lumberjack?”

Jonah doesn’t go over to that area of the school very often, only to chill in his husband’s room during their planning periods (thank God they’re both third period this semester, he doesn’t think he’d be able to survive another semester with a seventh period planning block). He helps chaperone each semester’s trips to the science museum, but it’s always just him and Brian, sometimes Simone if she doesn’t feel like torturing her students with more pointless Hemmingway than usual. 

Jonah snags a couple of Brian’s chips, crushes them up, and adds them to his ramen. “Don’t know him.”

“We hosted the talent show last month.”

Jonah snaps and grins. “That guy!” He grimaces. “Wait, that guy? People really think you’re good enough for him?”

“Pat is a very nice man, Jo, don’t be an asshole.”

“Language,” Jonah warns, shaking his fork menacingly at his husband, who rolls his eyes again and shovels his curry into his mouth with meaning. It’s not like they’re the only teachers in the staff room that swear. Brian’s friend, Jenna from Ninth Grade, swears more than the two of them combined. But, like, aesthetic. The relatively-calm band teacher and the Bill Nye-wannabe are supposed to be the more family-friendly guys on staff. Supposedly. 

“Yeah, shut the fuck up, Mr. Gilbert,” Simone calls from the other side of the table through a mouthful of hopefully-burrito. 

“Fuck off, Simone!” Brian responds. Jonah snorts. “Seriously, though, Jo, have the kids always been like that? They were fine last semester.”

“It’s only February, Bri, can’t expect them to know every facet of your life yet.”

Brian blinks. “We share a last name, dear. Gilbert-Scott. Do you think they’re high?”

“I bet they’re smoking those ‘jewels’ in the locker room and blowing those chunky fats.”

Brian reaches across the table and steals the rest of Jonah’s ramen, pulling the bowl over and picking at it with his fork. “They’re fatty chunks, dumbass.”

“Really?” Jonah asks, stealing Brian’s bowl of curry and picking at it with his own fork. “I thought they were cloudy shits.”

“Maybe they’re puffy smogs.”

“Or floaty frogs.”

Brian smiles. “Yeah, Jonah, my kids are smoking frogs.”

Jonah shudders. “You don’t want to know what the Perkins twins did in the percussion closet last week.”

Brian’s eyebrows raise, silently saying _why, Jonah, you must tell me right now or I’ll tell another embarrassing wedding story to the class next period_. And so Jonah sighs tiredly and puts his head in his hands, going off about how those dumbasses thought it was a good idea to set firecrackers off in a very small and enclosed space full of flammable mallets and drum heads. 

He finishes up just when they’re packing everything up into their lunchboxes and deciding whether or not to spend the five-minute passing period making out in the staff room. Just as they decide, yes, that is exactly what they are going to do, Pat and one of the art teachers come in. 

Jonah leans in close to his husband’s ear and whispers, “You going to introduce me to your boyfriend?”


	5. Pet shop and Fae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo i'm just gonna copy this bit over from tumblr:
> 
> behold a fae au that will never go anywhere beyond what shall be posted here
> 
> so i don’t even remember when i started this, or why, only that it has eluded me for months now and will probably never be completed beyond what i have already written. so i shall post all of that below for you lucky folks:

So the pet shop is home to literally five cats, three dogs, approximately seventeen-and-a-half cockroaches, thirty-eight very angry tarantulas, a parakeet, and one very bored Brian.

It’s not a big shop. It’s probably not even legal, not that Brian’s going to question it. It’s a weird setup: down three sets of stairs, probably under a drug den or twelve, judging by his boss, hidden and tucked away in an alley two blocks away from the nearest big road. But, hey, twelve bucks an hour and plenty of time to be alone and to work on an album that is totally going somewhere is worth the smell and the piss that sometimes comes down from the ceiling. He’s only had five customers in the month he’s been working there, and four of them just robbed him, pet the dogs, and left. 

And so it absolutely is not his fault that he tips over and falls out of his chair when the door’s bell rings. It isn’t, and whoever just walked in is probably reconsidering and on their way back out the door. 

“Uh,” they say, squashing all of Brian’s hopes and dreams in a single phrase. “Excuse me?”

To his credit, Brian recovers quickly and only freaks a bit as he bounces to his feet and dusts himself off. The parakeet, who was asleep on top of his head before the fall, flitters up onto the counter and perches on the phone with a creak. And then he loses every bit of credit he could’ve ever had as he looks up and sees who might be the most beautiful man who has ever existed on the face of this planet, complete with dripping-wet hair and soaked flannel, both clinging to him tightly. 

“Rain,” smartly says Brian, and he then dies a bit more inside and sits his chair back upright.

“Yeah,” the man says, his mouth quirking a bit. “This is…” he coughs, and Brian nods. 

“Pussies and Bitches, yes.”

“Pussies and Bitches,” the man nods, and he smiles, and the lights begin to flicker, and Brian’s pretty sure it’s, like, a sign from God or something. The man bends down to stroke the parakeet’s head. “Cool.”

Brian snorts. “Right.”

“No, I mean it. Great name. Nice bird.”

Brian’s boss always taught him, on his sparse visits, that if someone wants an animal, that they’ll get the damn animal. They’ll get it, but for five-hundred percent more than however much he got it for, which was probably for free because Brian’s pretty sure these animals were stolen off of people’s back porches sometime in the Depression. 

He does the math quickly. 

“Josephine’s forty ninety-five,” Brian says, absolutely unsure if he did the math right at all. So he tags on a, “Plus shipping.”

The man shakes his head, and the parakeet gives the two of them a look out of her two lazy eyes. She wobbles a bit, and Brian picks her back up and deposits her back on his head, where she promptly tips over and chirps. 

“What?” Brian asks, gently stroking Josephine’s side. She’s heartbroken. 

“I have a cat,” the man says, and Brian is pretty sure that this guy doesn’t get what a pet shop’s for. Apparently, Brian’s traitor face betrays his true rage because the man holds up his hands defensively. “I’m…can I go back and see the cats? Please?”

Brian blinks. “The cats? Sir, the only cats we’ve got here are half-dead and all-asshole. You sure you don’t want Josephine here?” 

He gives an awkward smile, nudging Josephine with one finger. She, as expected, chitters and bites said finger gently.

The man glances back at the front door, and then he jumps back as a fresh splash of piss crashes down from above, just barely avoiding it. “Can I just see the cats?”

Now, Brian technically isn’t supposed to let just anyone see the animals. Josephine is the exception just because she won’t leave him alone. Sonny has a strict policy: don’t sell animals to anyone not willing to pay for the parakeet. It’s a strange policy, but it’s not like it ever matters. Until it does. Until God’s perfect man walks into the shop. 

So he nods and grins as brightly as he can, not even flinching at the sudden gunshots from upstairs. Josephine squawks and shits just a bit. And the man just stands there. 

-

So Patrick comes by every day at three p.m. sharp, goes into the cat room, and sits there with them for exactly forty-five minutes before handing Brian a very generous fifty dollar tip, shaking his hand, and leaving just as quickly as he appeared. Meaning he’s gone the minute Brian looks up from locking the cat room’s door behind them. Because Patrick (or Pat, as he keeps clarifying, claiming something about Patrick being his dad’s name) has only used the door once, or maybe he just stole the electronic bell off it so he can be a sneaky, scary bitch and scare Brian half to death every time he pops up. And he always smiles, and Brian always forgets how to speak for a good five minutes while Pat makes small talk with the cats like he can understand their pitiful little chirps and mews, and he doesn’t even mind the smoke pouring through the cracks in the ceiling or the muffled screams from the building above them. 

-

Two weeks after Pat’s first visit, Brian’s boss comes by for the first time since he was hired, a trail of the tangy scents of blood, viscera, and stale Purina in his wake. Susan, on the floor by the broken-down vending machine, perks up and starts swishing her tail back in forth, watching Sonny carefully. 

“Got a guy coming by later,” Sonny says, spitting on the floor. Josephine screams at him and burrows her way down into Brian’s hair. 

“Cool,” Brian says, absently flipping through the newspaper. “When?”

“Later,” Sonny snaps, in both the literal and figurative sense. “Got it?”

“Yessir,” Brian says. He glances up at his boss. “You okay?”

Sonny has been pacing in place for the past while, not stopping, continually running a hand through his hair. But he pauses and leers down at Brian. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why? She come by?”

“Who-”

Sonny lunges at the desk, and Brian and his chair tumble down yet again. “Did she!?”

Brian violently shakes his head, accidentally sending Josephine flying. He scrambles to collect her off of the floor and smooth her feathers down. 

Sonny ‘hmphs’ and tugs his hat back on, stepping just out of the way of an incoming piss splash. “Whatever. Let me know if she does. Or, actually, don’t.”

Brian nods and swallows, his side burning. Josephine huddles down in his hands, anxiously chirping. 

Sonny digs around in his coat pocket and comes up with a wad of random bills, slamming them down on the counter. “Get a new chair.”

And, with that, he leaves. And, with that, Brian begins counting. He gets halfway through the stack of bills before the door rings, he instinctively lunges for the bathroom just in case Josephine shits again (which she does), and he trips over Susan and falls back to the floor, because that’s apparently just where he lives now. 

“Bad time?” asks Pat. Josephine screeches; Brian sits up and plops her onto the cat’s back before standing and grabbing some tissues for his hair. 

“No!” Brian grins, and the grin might be just a bit too wide. But whatever, Pat’s smiling back, even if it looks a bit…off. “It’s fine! You here for the cats?”

As if on cue, Susan struts out from behind the counter, Josephine proudly sitting upon her back like a Mongol general. Pat doesn’t give either of them a passing glance, instead continually glancing back at the door, head jerking quicker and quicker with every check. Brian frowns a bit.

“You okay?” Pat asks.

“Yeah,” Brian says, bending down so he can fix his hair in the computer screen’s reflection. He wrinkles his nose and reaches for his water bottle, emptying it out over his head and going back at it with the tissues. “Peachy. Susan’s out today, if you’re into personality.”

Susan, as if proving Brian’s point, lets out a vicious roar and shakes until Josephine flies off her back and across the room, landing on a soggy pile of newspapers that Brian should really get to cleaning up. Someday. Pat raises an eyebrow and crouches down to pick the cat up, and Susan, for the first time in her entire long, long life, allows it, snuggling back into Pat’s arms and blinking cutely up at him with a meow that screams _“Please save me from this shithole”_. 

Brian wrings his hair out into the trash can underneath the desk, far too used to this. He should probably invest in a shower. Maybe put it in the bathroom where the large collection of dead plants currently sits. Sonny would probably be okay with that. 

“I’m not here for the cats,” Pat says. Brian’s about to point out that the dogs aren’t very people-friendly and the tarantulas are, frankly, hellspawn, when Pat continues: “I’m, uh. Here for you.”

Brian smacks the top of his head against the bottom of the desk, almost hitting an exposed screw and narrowly avoiding the gun Sonny duct-taped to the underside of the front desk “for emergencies” . 

Brian makes the vocal equivalent of _‘Hhhh’_ and stands, rubbing the back of his head, probably looking like an entire idiot. Two idiots combined, even. And Pat’s calmly petting Susan like he didn’t just almost cause homicide via gay panic.

“Couple friends and I are going bar hopping tonight after they get out of work,” Pat continues, not sounding the least bit concerned about Brian’s concurrent gay panic. “Thinking Brooklyn, maybe. Probably going to end up at my place for Mario Kart. You down?”

“Shit, yeah,” Brian says, instead of something cool like, _“Why, Patrick, I would love to go out on an evening on the town with you and your friends. I sincerely hope it will only bring us closer,”_ or, “Fuck yeah, Pat,” or, _“I’m not just saying yes because the customer is always right, I’m genuinely interested you both as a person and as a potential boyfriend-slash-husband”_.

Pat’s smile shifts into something a bit more genuine, wider, as he gently runs his fingers down Susan’s side. He’s getting white hair all over his black jacket. Brian should maybe stop staring. 

“Cool,” Pat says. “Let’s go.”

Brian blinks. “Now?”

“Yeah,” Pat says, like it’s obvious and Brian’s missing something. 

Brian makes a show of looking at the nearly-broken wall clock on the wall above the actually-broken vending machine, then at the pile of feathers and disappointment on the newspaper, then at his watch, then at Pat again. Pat, meanwhile, has his head bent and his tickling under Susan’s chin. Not paying attention. 

“I’m working,” Brian says, loudly. Pat jumps. Susan grunts. Josephine wails. “And,” he adds, just as loudly because he’s still panicking just a bit and he’s never had much control over the volume of his voice in the face of a pretty man, woman, or beyond or in-between. “I have literal shit in my hair.”

“Ah.”

“And I don’t get off until five.”

“Right.”

It shouldn’t look so beautiful, distaste. Pat looks like he just ate a whole lemon, mouth turned down and hand stilling against Susan’s side. Not good, probably, he’s going to think Brian hates him and then never come back and then Brian will die alone and covered in bird shit. 

So Brian quickly says, “Not that I don’t want to go! Because I do. I just.” He weakly motions towards Josephine with a wave of the hand and a slight tilt of the head. “Work.”

“Yeah, I get it.” He’s shaking his head, smiling ever so slightly, just a gentle slope added to his already-beautifully-curved mouth. Brian should stop staring at his mouth, like, right now. “I’ll, uh, get you? At five? Here?” 

“Yeah! I’ll, uh. Try and de-shit my hair.”

“Great!” Pat fully grins, and it’s nearly blinding. Absolutely beautiful, gorgeous, stunning, sharp, cute. Somehow still soft. Brian’s still staring. Pat isn’t telling him to stop. “Five!”

Brian nods exuberantly. “Five!”

“Five,” Pat says. 

Susan grunts her way out of Pat’s arms and back onto the floor, landing with a grumble and a hiss in Brian’s general direction. She pads behind the counter and flops onto Brian’s messenger bag like it’s her personal pillow; it practically is at this point.

“Five,” Brian repeats. A smile of his own has crossed his face and is probably doofy and silly-looking. Definitely not attractive. 

Pat ducks his head and brushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “Yeah. Five. Uh, be safe. ‘Kay?”

Brian blinks a few times, his smile flickering. “Yeah, ‘course. It’s not- yeah, this place sucks, but it’s not, like, dangerous.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Yeah.” Pat laughs, almost bordering on a nervous-sounding giggle. Almost. Susan narrows her eyes, and Brian almost mirrors the motion. “Five. See you, Brian.”

Brian rolls his eyes, leaning back against the back of his chair and catching himself on the wall behind him when he realizes and remembers that the chair is currently in pieces on the floor. When he looks up, Pat’s gone, Josephine’s on the counter again, and Brian’s messenger bag is on the counter and cleared of all cat hair, looking almost brand new. When he raises a hand to brush some hair out of his eyes, it feels like it was never shat upon.

The door to the shop opens, the bell rings, and Brian looks up with the smile still on his face.

-

_“You’re fucked,”_ Zuko seems to be telling him that night as he finishes putting away groceries. Brian rolls his eyes and tries to squeeze a bag of marshmallows in between the five boxes of Nature’s Valley granola bars that he doesn’t remember buying. 

“I am fine,” he tells his cat. All five boxes fall out of the cupboard and on top of the eggs. He sighs and goes to find a rag before Zuko and start licking the shells up again. 

The cat cries out as Brian blocks him from the yolky goodness. Brian gives him a look. 

Zuko nibbles on Brian’s sleeve. _“You’re overreacting. It’s just egg. I can take care of it.”_

“Absolutely not,” Brian says. “You’re a menace.”

_“Give me the goddamn eggs, father.”_

Now, Brian knows better. But Zuko will probably eat the eggy rag as soon as Brian turns his back. So he sighs and swipes the carton into the trash and goes to sulk in his room because it’s either that or having his cat shame him more than usual.


	6. Enchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dance with me?" Brian asks, ducking his head slightly so that his hair’s in his eyes and biting his lower lip shyly, and there’s nothing this guy does that’s shy.
> 
> And Pat smiles and takes Brian’s hand, pulls him away from the crowd so Simone can’t record them (like she threatened to the minute she saw him and Brian walk into the non-denominational holiday party with matching Santa hats on).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never seen enchanted. But from what I've gathered, a princess with the power of music falls into another dimension and falls in love with a guy who can't stand music and fairy tales, and he falls in love with her. 
> 
> So here's the ending to that story. Yes, it's sappy, no, I'm not going to write the full thing unless someone directly asks me to. Because I want to, but it doesn't want to work.

Okay so we’ve got a prince out of another dimension, stuck in Pat’s apartment for some ungodly reason. Okay. He’s had crazier roommates. It’s fine. But, like, it isn’t fine because this crazy homeless guy is literally the most attractive man on the face of the planet. And Pat’s liked to think of himself as a dignified gay (wine Saturday evenings as he binges _Say Yes to the Dress_ , dancing with his cat at midnight to the sweet tones of the static on the tv, reading reader’s digest but only the terrible funny pages). But when he sees Brian, any thought of dignity goes out the window and he stammers over everything like he’s a teenager talking to his first crush all over again. It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous. And, half the time, it’s to a musical number Pat has no interest in being in. 

But.

“Dance with me?” Brian asks, ducking his head slightly so that his hair’s in his eyes and biting his lower lip shyly, and there’s nothing this guy does that’s shy. His first appearance in “this dimension” was him forming a flash mob and dancing to some Disney-esque bullshit Pat still hasn’t found yet after almost a month of googling. 

And Pat smiles and takes Brian’s hand, pulls him away from the crowd so Simone can’t record them (like she threatened to the minute she saw him and Brian walk into the non-denominational holiday party with matching Santa hats on). “I can’t dance, Brian. You know that.”

“I can…” Brian chuckles nervously, pressing himself against Pat’s front and dropping his head onto his shoulder effortlessly, like they’ve done this before. Pat’s hands find a natural position on Brian’s waist, and thank God it’s one of the slower songs, Pat doesn’t know what else to do other than shuffle around aimlessly in a circle. And so he does. “I can make you. Dance, I mean. Dance well. With my, uh, music.”

And that shouldn’t be good, shouldn’t be right, wanting his mind to be controlled into making him a good dancer. It shouldn’t be scientifically possible, but it happens, and maybe there’s something to this “other dimension” thing, after all. 

Pat nods and smiles wider, knows he looks like a dumbass. Because he is a dumbass, Simone told him as much the first night he texted her about how fucking gay he is for this guy. Brian’s smile seeps under Pat’s shirt, his skin, and he starts humming along to the song as if he knows it (maybe he does, he did say he was doing research for this thing). And, for once, Pat lets the song take over, lets his body get puppeted around in a slow, lazy holiday dance, lets himself hum along, too, because he already knew the song already. Might as well make him smile even more. 

It’s just them in the corner, everyone else out in the middle of the room or at the bar they were just at. If anyone asked, Pat’s blush and his sudden willingness to get close to another human being is because he had too much to drink, and they don’t know Brian at all (he’s just a plus one, and Jenna had wiggled her eyebrows at him when he walked in with Brian on his arm excitedly talking about how he didn’t scream at the elevator this time, Patrick, he should be proud and also marry him because he’s finally normal just like Pat, he isn’t weird).

Pat clears his throat at the thought and finally comes up with a response, three whole hours of drinking and coworker-mingling later. 

“You don’t have to be normal,” he mutters, and Brian perks up a bit at that, stops his humming to listen. Pat immediately stumbles, and Brian snorts like the little devil he is. “I like you how you are. For you, you know?”

Brian lifts his head a little, narrows his eyes. “You sure about that? ‘Cause you’re the one that’s been calling me crazy for the past month.”

Pat’s face heats up and he coughs, “Uh, well. Uh. Listen, I had a…a bit of a rough time the past couple of years. You know that. She, uh- I didn’t believe in fairy tales for a long time.”

Brian’s eyes soften. “Oh, Patrick.”

“And you just…you made me believe again. Just you and your weird music stuff and your weird mustache and your weird sense of humor and, uh. Just your weird you.”

“But-”

“Don’t feel like you have to change a thing about yourself for my sake, Brian.” He pauses, gauges the weird feeling in his stomach and flips between it being the alcohol or butterflies. He settles on butterflies. “I…I’m not sure about marrying you. Not yet. Can we just…have a trial run first? To make sure you know what you’re getting int-”

And then Brian’s kissing him. And then Brian’s pulling away with an embarrassed cough, almost apologizing, and then Pat’s ducking back down and kissing him, threading his fingers through Brian’s hair and breaking into a smile that Brian reciprocates. Brian’s arms find their ways around Pat’s waist, somehow pulling him closer, and it’s beautiful and it’s grounding. 

Someone from across the room whistles, and Pat and Brian stumble apart, red-faced and red-mouthed and wide-eyed. Pat’s smile only grows and he pulls Brian closer again as the song changes to something more upbeat, something he would never have even thought about dancing to a year ago. A month ago, even. 

“Dance with me?” he asks, almost laughing as Brian nods so hard his glasses almost go flying.


	7. Werewolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You ever think Brian’s a furry?” Jonah asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is part of an abandoned fic that i just reread and figured would be a good peek into what my weird kind of werewolf fic would be (see: my terrible sp7 phase and those weirdass wolves)
> 
> This one is really short, but like yeah

“You ever think Brian’s a furry?” Jonah asks.

Pat, who is halfway into his fourth bottle, snorts just a bit too loudly and nods. “He’s such a fuckin’ furry, dude. He. He asked me if I could turn him. Last week after the stream. He’s...fuckin’. A furry.”

Jonah, who has chosen to stick to water tonight and thus is not four bottles of beer into a Friday night, is, correctly, shocked at that, eyes widening. “He didn’t.”

“He did!” Pat exclaims, ignoring the harsh glare of the person at the table next to theirs. They’re the one that went to a werewolf bar alone, they should be, like, okay with hearing this kind of shit at this volume. “He’s fucking insane, dude!”

“Oh my God,” Jonah says. He’s eyeing Pat’s bottle suspiciously; Pat frowns and pulls it closer, protective. “I’m going to kill him.”

“He’d probably be into that, the fucking furry.”

“Such a furry,” Jonah sighs. He taps his fingers against the table, pauses for a minute before asking: “Do you think we should-”

Pat growls, eyes narrowing. He can feel the wolf inside going fucking mental at this, he knows it wants Brian in the pack, it wants to be able to run free with both him and Jonah every moon. But, like, fuck the wolf. He didn’t ask for it, it doesn’t get a say in anything. 

“He is fine as he is,” Pat spits, taking a long draw of his beer and grimacing at the taste because the shit here sucks. “We need him to keep us in check.”

Jonah rolls his eyes. “Patrick, please. We’ve been doing this longer than we’ve known him.”

“And?” Pat asks. “Don’t fuckin’ tell me you never went wild and- and-” 

And then the words are gone from his mouth as he breaks into a whine, doubling over and resting his forehead against the table, hand still tightly curled around his beer. Jonah sighs, not unkindly because bless him, and moves to Pat’s side of the booth to pull him into a side hug. And Pat lets himself be moved, lets Jonah sit him up so he can press a gentle kiss to his temple, because Jonah’s technically the alpha male here. Pat’s just along for the ride. 

“I don’t want him to end up like us,” Pat says, soft, leaning against Jonah’s side and staring forlornly down at his lap. “Like. Look at us, Jo, two miserable bastards who can’t even get that idiot to let us outside.”

“Outside is overrated,” Jonah says, gentle. His arm around Pat’s waist tightens minutely. “And it keeps him happy. Isn’t that what we want?”

Pat sniffs. Of course it is, that’s the only reason he stopped locking himself in his bedroom once a month with several pounds of raw steak and his basket of tennis balls (stress relief, keeps the wolf from howling). Brian had begged, eyes wide and mouth pleading, and Pat couldn’t say no. And then he met Jonah, and knew he had to stay. 

“Yeah,” he softly says, turning his head to bury his face in the soft fabric of Jonah’s shirt. This close to the moon, he can blame this on the wolf. If Jonah asks. Which he never does, bless him. 

He feels Jonah press a kiss to the top of his head, and he knows that, this close to the moon, he can blame it on the wolf. But he never does, bless him. 

“It’ll be fine,” Jonah says. “promise. He won’t do anything stupid, we won’t do anything stupid. It’ll be fine.”


	8. Warrior Cats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thursday was like National Cat Day and, to celebrate/ruin my reputation, I wrote a warrior cats au based off of TUmblr user ahimbo's au
> 
> For clarity:
> 
> Crowfrost = pat, he is sad  
> Briarheart = brian, he is fluffy as fuuuuuck  
> Longstar = tara, she gives no shits  
> Ravenfire = simone, she also gives no shits  
> Jenna = is also here but is unnamed and is brian's buddy   
> Mountaindew = clayton, who does not appear but i needed to put this joke somewhere
> 
> i'm not a furry i promise (i do support yall, but i'm also allergic to cats, so *shrugs*)

Briarheart fell in love with him at first sight. Crowfrost knows that. He was there, in fact, when the kittypet came running up crying out about adventures, jingling. Fluffy. Soft-looking. Kind. Dumb as a rock, with the way he ran away without a second glance back and almost immediately managed to get himself stuck in a bush. 

Briarheart is soft. Squishy. He prefers to spend his days in the medicine cat’s den than out on patrols or hunts. Prefers sleeping to late-night moonlit strolls. Takes whatever prey Crowfrost gives him and digs in without a second thought. He’s too trusting. Romantic. Soft. 

One night as Crowfrost slinks into the den after a long walk, he’s greeted by Briarheart curled up in their usual spot shivering. Cold-looking, which is impossible because he’s literally the fluffiest cat in the clan. So it’s only natural the Crowfrost curls himself around him, and the single lick he gives between Briarheart’s ears is helpful. Somehow. It’ll help. And in the morning when he’s woken for the early patrol, Crowfrost has to press his nose against Briarheart’s side in a silent farewell, and he ignores Ravenfire’s not-so-gentle teasing as they head out of the camp.

So they sleep together now. That is normal. It is normal for two toms to sleep together and eat together and go on walks together and go hunting together and-

Crowfrost…isn’t soft. He knows that, Starclan, he knows that. He’s a warrior. He has…he’s killed before, and not just prey. He almost killed Briarheart on their first meeting. He hasn’t properly groomed himself in moons, and he’s pretty sure that the shoddy attempts he’s been making recently aren’t cutting it, aren’t anywhere near Briarheart-quality. And he has to be Briarheart-quality. He can’t have Briarheart loving a rough-and-tumble, asshole-ish, stubborn, dirty…he can’t have Briarheart loving a cat like Crowfrost. Starclan knows he deserves better. Like Ravenfire, or his weird kittypet friend that keeps watching the clan from a tree in the night when it’s just Crowfrost awake and pacing outside the den trying to will his body to sleep (not to mention that toms don’t…do this. They can, and have in the past, but not in Crowfrost’s lifetime. And not with a tom as bright as the sun and a tom looking like he just crawled out of a mud puddle full of shit.). 

So he maybe tells Ravenfire this in confidence, and she maybe laughs at him until her throat is sore and Briarheart is poking his head out of the medicine cat’s den with his eyes twinkling because he’s attracted to laughter in any form, especially when it’s related to anything Crowfrost does. And maybe Crowfrost lets out a noise he hasn’t made since he was a kit being pushed around by his sister and runs out of the hollow as casually as he can. And maybe he stops by the river, close to the border, and sits and catches his breath and looks down at the dirty, ragged tomcat in his reflection, and sighs. 

He tore his ear in a fight against a couple loners a moon ago, and it’s still ragged and gross despite all the weird medicine stuff Briarheart put on it (he isn’t the medicine cat, not even the apprentice, but Tallstar had put him in there on “official assistant duty” because he can’t fight worth shit and can only sometimes hunt properly). His fur is matted in some places because he can’t reach them no matter what and refuses any help because he’s a stubborn asshole. He looks like a monster compared to Briarheart, like the things that his mother told him and his sister in the den when they wouldn’t go to sleep and wanted to go out on patrol with their dad. 

He can hear Briarheart’s terrible, awful, horrible sneaking minutes before he playfully springs out from a bush and tries to wrestle Crowfrost into the shallows, and Crowfrost allows him the briefest moment of victory before flipping him and pinning him, ignoring the warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest and Briarheart’s obvious purring. His own obvious purring, which is extremely rude and traitorous body please. 

“Hey,” Briarheart smiles. “I almost got you that time.”

“Sure,” Crowfrost says. 

“Hmm, big strong warrior cat almost got wet because of the kittypet.”

“Almost. But didn’t.”

“Could’ve, like, gotten damp,” Briarheart continues. “Moist, even.”

Crowfrost leans in closer and, just when he’s about to say something cool, Briarheart digs his hind paws into Crowfrost’s stomach and has _him_ pinned, laughing triumphantly. Crowfrost, frankly, sulks. “Who taught you that?”

“Ravenfire. Like, a moon ago. Said to pull it on you if you ever tried being stupid.”

“I’m never stupid.”

Briarheart hums. “Sure thing, genius. You’re gonna get your ear infected, going off like this. Dumbass.”

“I. It was all her fault, don’t blame me.”

“Or maybe it was all your fault because you,” he says, accentuating that last word with a gentle nudge of the nose against Crowfrost’s nose. “are a Silly Billy. And I remember Silly Billy was a fuckin’ idiot. He was convinced for the longest time he was ugly. Not worth anything. Know why, Crowfrost?”

Crowfrost has a sense of where this is going. He swallows and carefully avoids the other tom’s gaze. “Because he was trying to compare himself with the sun itself and all its inherent beauty?”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Briarheart’s voice is soft, almost reverent. Nearly disbelieving, as if he could ever be not beautiful. He could be covered in spiders and still be the most spectacular thing in the universe.

Crowfrost nods, as much as he’s able to in this position. “Uh.”

“Aww, Crowfrost! That’s sweet! You’re beautiful, too, you handsome rapscallion of a dumbass!”

And then his face is smothered in rough, fast little kisses and he’s let up. Crowfrost stays lying down for a moment, staring blankly up at the forest canopy with a dumb smile on his face.


	9. Fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i like fantasy too much .

The thing about traveling with a wanted criminal is that said wanted criminal has a thing about not staying on the fucking roads. Which led to various comedic mishaps involving feral rabbits and a dragon. And also led to Brian wanting to shove his lute up this asshole’s dick and leave him for the vultures to eat. 

“I think you’re overreacting,” Pat says. 

Pat has the map tucked into his belt right next to his scabbard. If he didn’t, Brian would’ve abandoned him days ago when they were in town. _“Let me carry the map,”_ he said, holding out his hand and giving Brian the most charming smile he’s seen in his entire life. And Brian, ever the idiotic homosexual, gave him the map. Because how could he say no? He’s literally Brian’s type: tall, dark, handsome, scruffy, charming, funny. It’s like the gods saw Brian and decided, yeah, he should get the man of his dreams, but that man should also be an asshole who apparently killed one of the princes. Which really puts a damper on any sort of relationship they could possibly have. 

Pat is keeping watch as Brian sets up camp for the night, staring out over the wide expanse of a river they’re going to have to cross in the morning. There’s a bridge a few hours travel away, maybe. Brian isn’t sure. He doesn’t know where anything is anymore after so long away from the main roads. 

“I think I’m reacting the appropriate amount,” Brian says. He finishes arranging the firewood and, after a bit of mumbling under his breath, snaps and sets it ablaze. 

He yawns and plops down by it, stretching out his arms. Pat comes to join him, sitting on the opposite side so he can keep an eye on the woods, though it really just feels like he’s staring into Brian’s soul, with the way he’s looking. It’s maybe very attractive. Definitely terrifying. 

“What, you haven’t seen a dragon before?” Pat asks. “I thought everybody has.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Of course I have, Patrick. But it’s not like I ever saw one that close before. We could’ve actually died.”

Pat shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. “I could’ve protected you.”

Brian distinctly remembers Pat immediately grabbing his hand and pulling him in the opposite direction, flames hot on their backs and rabbits biting at their heels. And then they cowered underneath an upturned tree root until the coast was clear, Pat’s hand on the hilt of his sword and Brian’s lute at the ready. 

“Yeah, right.” Brian snorts. He flips some hair out of his face and makes a mental note to cut it short in the morning before they leave. Can’t have him getting stuck on any more bushes. “You are the most cowardly murderer I know.”

“How many other murderers do you know?” 

Brian simply winks in return, smirking at Pat’s slight gasp. 

The first thing Brian had realized about his new traveling companion is that Pat, despite having a very nice-looking sword, never pulls it out of its sheath. He prefers to run or to let Brian talk their way out of things, sometimes swooping in with a grin and a couple of gold pieces. Sometimes he pulls out a dagger from his boot or, on special occasions, a crossbow from his satchel. And it’s fine, really. Brian’s fine with being the bodyguard as long as he’s getting paid, and Pat has promised to pay for new spell components every time they hit a new town on the way to the border. It’s worth it as long as they avoid conflicts, especially draconic ones. 

“You live dangerously, my friend,” Pat laughs, shaking his head, and Brian rolls his eyes and leans back on his hands. 

“I just live, man. Not my fault someone keeps attracting dangerous monsters and brigands.”

Pat raises a finger. “Counterpoint: you’re the one that attacked the owlbear in the first place.”

“Only because you were near-delirious from hunger.”

“Because you wouldn’t let us stop for dinner.”

“It was three in the afternoon! No one eats dinner at three!”

“I do!”

Brian huffs and debates, not for the first time, whether or not this whole thing is worth it.


	10. Criminal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey you ever think that brian would steal deli foods and deli foods only? bc i sure as hell do. for @les-brian on tumblr (this is not edited i just thought it was Funny, and this is one of the ones i'd like to do more of someday)

He finds him on the fire escape with twelve frozen turkeys. 

“Brian,” he says, crossing his arms firmly because they talked about this. “whose were those?”

Brian just brightly grins and hefts the turkeys through the open window. “Doesn’t matter. Can Charlie have turkey?”

Charles, as if answering, pounces upon the first turkey to hit the floor with a war cry, gumming at it full of more life than Pat’s seen in him in weeks. Charlie, of course, can’t have turkey, it makes his stomach upset and he then keeps Pat up all night wailing like a constipated banshee. So he picks his dumbass of a cat up and cradles him to his chest, sighing tiredly as Charles begins the usual “Why do you hate me, father?” cry of despair and longing that comes up when Brian visits. 

As soon as the last turkey’s through, Brian clambers in, trips over the stack of cardboard boxes Pat and his roommate have been saving up for the past month, and almost faceplants into the turkey pile. And it’s adorable, and it’s charming, and it’s enough to make Pat only slightly regret letting him know where he lives. 

Brian’s quickly up and pressing a kiss to Pat’s cheek, then to Pat’s lips, then to the top of Charlie’s head with a chin scratch that leaves Charles crying out yet again. Not that Brian would notice. He’s deaf to all things that don’t involve petty theft or musical theater. Pat loves him anyway, and he’s going to say it to his face soon enough, hopefully when he isn’t helping him break his sister out of jail. Again. 

Pat nudges a turkey with a toe. “There a sale or something?”

“Or something,” Brian laughs, a short tinkle of a thing, as he turns to shut the window. The back of his shirt, now that Pat’s seeing it, is stained a weird greenish-blue, the same color as…

Pat sighs what he hopes passes for a contented hum and walks to his bedroom, tosses Charles in and shuts the door before he can scuttle his way out and back to the holy land that is the turkey mound. On his way back to the main room, Brian catches him by the arm and pulls him down into a kiss, and, well, who’s Pat to refuse? He’s a weak man and he can feel the way Brian’s hands are shaking against the sides of his face. His lips taste almost like blood. 

Pat snaps his head back and catches Brian’s chin between his thumb and his index finger. Brian winks, and Pat huffs, “You got caught.”

Brian’s face does something weird as he skitters back a step or two, and laughs again. “Who, me? Patrick, darling, have you met me?”

“Yeah, and I know when you’re lying.” He scowls and crosses his arms, blows some hair out of his face because it’s hard to look like the menacing, yet caring, boyfriend when he looks, as Brian puts it, soft. “You’ve got paint on your shirt, same stuff Simone’s putting up in her kitchen. You were in a fight.” He steps closer, puts a hand on Brian’s cheek and lightly presses his thumb into a spot to the side of Brian’s eye; Brian winces. “Babe, what the fuck was so special about twelve turkeys?”

“She wasn’t the one that decked me, Pat,” Brian says, not answering, but Pat’s used to this by now. They follow a pattern on these rare occasions: Pat asks what happened, Brian avoids the answer, they figure out what to do with whatever Brian stole, they patch Brian up and kiss and cuddle on the couch and wait for the cops to call off the search. “And I wouldn’t steal from her! She’d make you miserable at work.”

“Then what happened? Some random guy was in there, waited until you got twelve frozen turkeys out of her fridge, and clocked you?”

“It was the painter. Or someone in white, at least. Looked like a painter. And I bashed his face in with a turkey, don’t worry, he won’t tell.”

Pat glances down at the pile. One turkey towards the bottom has a large rust-colored stain on the side of its packaging that he thought was a fuckup with the label. Apparently not. No wonder Charlie gravitated towards it, the goblin. 

He sighs and tries to look Brian in the eyes, knowing they probably won’t make eye contact again for a bit. Probably a day or two, long enough for Brian’s weird natural ability to bounce back from literally anything to kick in. 

“Why did you steal the turkeys?” he asks. 

Brian shrugs. “She’s the one that had twelve turkeys in her freakishly-large refrigerator.”

And Pat should argue this. He should, because Simone’s going to be all pissy at work tomorrow because someone broke into her apartment and stole twelve turkeys. And _goddamn_ he wants to know why she even had twelve turkeys, and he can’t ask or he’ll end up giving away the identity of the turkey thief. A true pickle. 

So he just sighs and drops his head against Brian’s, moving his hand down to take Brian’s wrist in his hand and gently squeeze, rub a thumb down the inside. 

“Just don’t do it again,” he says, and Brian just laughs.

—

Brian gives a single text as a warning before sliding into the office’s lobby wielding two loaves of rye bread like goddamn nunchucks, grinning widely. Pat just sighs and steals a loaf and tucks it under his arm. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says, fondly, because he is in love, after all, and he can’t be upset at Brian when he’s looking that damn happy.

“You love me anyway,” Brian says, smug like the bastard he is. He kisses Pat on the cheek and steals the bread back. “You sure your boss won’t mind if I hide out up there?”

“Tara gives no shits as long as you don’t interrupt me.”

Brian’s grin somehow widens. Pat offers a small, genuine smile back (because he knows some of the people in the lobby and has a cool, badass appearance to uphold) and leads him to the elevator, stealing both loaves and holding them tight to his chest like a mother duck protects her ducklings. 

“What’d you tell her, anyway?” Brian asks. 

“Some guys were following you and you needed your big, strong boyfriend to keep you safe.”

Brian sighs and flutters his eyelashes at him, squeezing his bicep. “So strong, so powerful. No mugger can get me now.”

Of course, outside, a cop or two is combing the area by the deli three blocks away looking for a modern Jean Valjean. This is all bullshit and could maybe get Pat fired if Brian lets it slip that, whoops, he does have seventeen knives on his person as well as fifteen stolen credit cards and his roommate’s driver’s license. 

Pat chuckles and ducks down to give his dumbass of a boyfriend a kiss, and he blinks, and then Brian has the bread back in his arms with a cheeky grin that Pat, of course, must kiss. It’s a contractual obligation, right under ‘Must not tell the pigs’, as if Pat would tell those bastards anything. 

—

“Please don’t.”

Brian rolls his eyes and hands his glasses over, smoothes his hair down. “Sorry, Patrick, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

“Brian, I literally have my wallet. It’s five dollars.”

“Five dollars too much,” Brian scowls. 

“It is literally just ham.”

“Patrick, shut your whore mouth, this is the best goddamn ham in the city.”

Pat blinks. “Brian. Baby. I love you very much, but there’s no way this ham is worth a blowjob.”

Dinner is ham, and it is absolutely not worth one of Brian’s blowjobs.


	11. Tangled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that final scene from Tangled? The sad one that had 10-year-old us crying in the theater?
> 
> Yeah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been listening to the beetlejuice tony's performance for the past two hours since finishing sweeny todd and writing an au where pat literally is the grim reaper. 
> 
> so here's a disney movie! :D (blame les-brian on tumblr. yes, kevin punt is brother gothel)
> 
> cws: death! and blood! and the gross shit mother gothel pulled, like, holy shit was she messed up (let me know if i need to go ahead and put the major character death on, i wasn't sure if it applied if it wasn't explicit and was temporary, but it will be needed in the future, so /shrugs/

It hurts, is the thing. Not the knife, no, he’s been stabbed before (just not in the stomach, just not with a knife he can feel eating away at his skin, just not by a witch murdering him). Watching Brian scream a thousand miles or ten feet or just inches away into a gag, pulling against chains? Are those chains? Fuck, his glasses are broken again, great, if he wasn’t already dying, Simone would kill him for making her make him a new pair. Hah, she’s going to be piiiiiissed. 

Pat falls off the knife and to the floor on top of a broken, tipped over mirror, and, ow, glass isn’t doing him any favors here. Shit, ouch. 

He was supposed to die in the city. Or out in the woods. Or by Tara’s hand after another night of not paying his tab. Just- just not here in front of the man he was supposed to be saving. Not by fucking Kevin Punt (if that is his real name)’s stupid knife and stupid self, and, oh. Oh wow, this fuckin’ hurts. 

He distantly catches - _kevin please_ \- a conversation over - _i’ll go with you, just let me_ \- the ringing in his ears - _i promise_. And then he’s looking at Brian’s face, and he’s still handsome even with tears running down his cheeks. 

“Nonono,” Pat murmurs, trying to sit himself up because he has a bad feeling. He knows something bad’s gonna happen, and he- he- he has to _stop it_. “Brian, no-”

“Shut the fuck up, Patrick,” Brian snaps. He gathers his hair in his hands, and Pat’s hand brushes against a loose shard of glass, and he makes an executive decision. 

Pat falls back down.

-

_“I, uh, I have a dream,” Pat says. “Not the one I told at the inn. That one was all bullshit. Just so you know.”_

_Brian hums, seemingly not paying much attention. He’s too busy wrapping his hair around the long gash down Pat’s leg from the cave-in. The frog thing on his head, though, looks absolutely fascinated. As fascinated as a frog can get, anyway._

_“When I was a kid, I watched the prince be kidnapped.” Pat closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Brian, that face. The prince’s face, gods, he looks just like Prince Patrick. “Well, not exactly. I was in bed watching the stars because, uh, maybe I was a total loser, and I watched a guy run by carrying a baby, and, honestly, that’s not too weird for that part of town. I thought it was just gonna be another baby getting dropped off. ‘s how Legs showed up there, anyway. And me, but, well, that’s not- so the guards came in the morning and described the guy and, shit, it was the guy I saw. And I…didn’t say anything.”_

_Brian pauses, then, and Pat starts as he takes his hand in both of his. Brian’s hands are soft. His touch is gentle._

_Pat maybe forgets how to breathe for a moment as Brian says, “Don’t tear yourself up about it, Patrick. What were you going to do? You were a kid.”_

_“Yeah, but I could’ve said something! Anything! But I didn’t, and the prince is probably dead, and it’s all my fault.”_

_He lets out a shuddery breath and tips his head back to the stars. When he opens his eyes, he can almost remember the constellations’ names. Almost. They were beat out of him years ago, though._

_“My dream,” he says, quiet, just in case Brian doesn’t want to hear. “is to find the prince, and to bring him home.”_

_He knows where the tower is, now. And…Brian would hate him for it, but it’s not like he hasn’t killed before. He hates it, but he has, and he’ll do it again, because, even if this Kevin wasn’t the kidnapper, he’s still an abusive piece of shit. And Brian deserves better._

_“That’s a great dream,” Brian says after a moment. He’s still holding Pat’s hand. He doesn’t have to still be holding Pat’s hand. “I have another dream, besides the lights. I- fuck, Patrick, don’t hate me for this, but I want to see your dream come true. And maybe to stay with you until you reach it. If you’ll have me.”_

_Pat’s gaze snaps to him, and Brian’s as red as the fire before them, and Pat smiles and puts his free hand over both of Brian’s. Brian shyly smiles up at him._

_“I’d like that,” Pat softly says._

-

When he opens his eyes, all Pat can see is a blinding light. All he can feel is a burn in his gut where the knife is buried- wait, no. No, it’s gone. He can feel it gone, what the fuck? The fuck? Gods, his head’s killing him. 

“Aw, _fuck_ ,” he groans, and suddenly he’s being kissed. Then he’s not being kissed because whoever was kissing him jerked away with a yelp of an apology, and that’s Brian. Brian…

Pat sits up with a gasp, hands flying to his stomach (no blood, no hole), to his face (nose isn’t broken anymore, can’t wait to shove that into Griffin’s stupid face), then to Brian’s face, his hands gently cupping his cheeks and his thumbs already moving to brush away the tears. His tears. Golden tears. 

Brian looks almost as much of a mess as Pat feels, with his hair choppily cut short and it looking _brown_ and his face all red and blotchy. And he looks _pissed_. 

“Patrick,” Brian whispers. “what the actual _fuck_ were you thinking!? You could’ve come after me if you were healed!”

Pat shakes his head and presses his forehead to Brian’s with a small, weak smile because _fuck_ his face fucking hurts. Everything hurts, actually, great. 

“Hi,” he says, and he accepts the weak smack to his chest in response. “sorry not sorry, Brian, kiss me again?”

And Brian rolls his eyes and kisses him again, and Pat smiles, and he can feel the glass underneath his ass but he doesn’t care. 

“You’re a dumbass,” Brian mutters. Another kiss, then: “I can’t believe I love you.”

Pat beams, just as bright as the sun pooling around them, and kisses him again, says a brief _“I love you, too”_ before moving them away from the broken mirror. 

There are so many things to do. Take Brian back to the capital, try not to get arrested for both breaking out of jail and killing a man in a tower and stealing the crown in the first place, try and convince them that he was literally six when the prince was stolen and thus wasn’t the one to kidnap him. Get Brian’s hair properly trimmed so he doesn’t look quite like a hermit, Jenna can get that, easy. Get the chains off of Brian’s wrists and ankles, but Pat can get that easily. Make sure the frog thing isn’t dead, make sure that evil horse is.

But all that can wait. He has something much more important to do right now, and Pat kisses Brian yet again.

**Author's Note:**

> So my tumblr is [asorrywrite](https://asorrywrite.tumblr.com/). I put random au ideas there because my brain keeps spitting them out instead of letting me write anything properly, and it's usually a shitshow around the time my friends are out of work/awake because I'm a bit of a gremlin. But I'm always willing to talk!
> 
> Meanwhile, y'all just take a load off. Eat some cake, drink water, it's fuckin hot here in the US, don't die. Cool off. Prepare yourself for school starting up again soon.


End file.
